


Sing your notes, play your part

by Jack Ironsides (JackIronsides)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Partial Mind Control, loss of bodily control/personal agency, passing/joking mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackIronsides/pseuds/Jack%20Ironsides
Summary: ‘I could take away everything you want! Destroy all your heart’s desires!’ the mage screams.Geralt cuts his head off. That's probably the end of it.Jaskier is left dealing with the fallout of the dead mage's curse when Geralt just ... leaves him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 103
Kudos: 777





	Sing your notes, play your part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruffboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/gifts).



Jaskier is helping the woodcutter’s daughter out of the door as the mage screams.

‘ _Months of planning!_ ’ he screeches. ‘ _Months!_ And now it’ll be months more until the stars are in the right alignment again!’

Geralt is finding it hard to feel too much sympathy for a man who’d been planning to turn a young woman into a small pile of ash to further whatever spell he’d wanted to cast. He knows enough about the Brotherhood to know that it’s spellwork that’s almost certainly banned in any case.

‘I could take away everything you want! Destroy _all_ your heart’s desires!’ the mage is still screaming.

Geralt has been hoping that the man would stop running his mouth and maybe let Geralt take him in to the town’s wizard, but the mage starts twisting his hands in a way Geralt recognises, and moves almost without thinking about it. The mage’s head lands on the wooden floor with a thump, his body falling a moment later.

‘Oh, I was going to ask if you were okay, but wow,’ says Jaskier poking his head back in. ‘I see things are in hand.’

‘Jaskier,’ he says in relief.

Jaskier’s whole posture stiffens. ‘I’m going to take Annette back to the village,’ he says. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to see this.’

‘Good idea—’ Geralt begins.

‘I mean, the last thing she needs to realise is that there were two monsters here,’ Jaskier continues with a twist of his mouth.

‘Jaskier,’ he says. He feels breathless, like he’s been thrown the full length of a cathedral by a striga. Like he’s been hit by three Aards at once.

‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ Jaskier says, his face still twisted up with what looks like anger and disgust. It’s so unlike him; so much so that Geralt would think that it’s an illusion. But he can smell Jaskier’s frustration, and worse, the sour taint of fear. That’s what convinces him that it’s real. There’s always roiling fear beneath disgust. ‘You must love these tasks, when they let you kill like this. You put on airs, but you’re very much a contract killer, aren’t you?’

‘I— _no_ ,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want—’

‘You could have taken him back to the tower and let the Brotherhood deal with him,’ Jaskier continues relentlessly. ‘But you didn’t want to, did you? You _enjoyed this._ ’

Geralt crosses to him without even thinking about it, goes to take him by the shoulders, ask him why he’s saying these things.

‘ _DON’T TOUCH ME!_ ’ Jaskier yells, recoiling. Hot tears spill from his eyes. ‘I’m going to take Annette back to the village, and you’re not going to follow me,’ he says, more quietly. ‘Go report to the wizard, and then _leave_ , Witcher. You’re not wanted here.’

He fixes Geralt with a pleading look, and Geralt folds.

‘All right,’ he says heavily. ‘I’ll be gone by evening. Goodbye, Jaskier.’

*

Jaskier had plenty of experience as a child of doing things he didn’t want to. Of being quiet when he wanted to yell, of having to put up with being touched or manhandled when he wanted to be left alone. Of being dressed up in clothes he hated and having to go to events he didn’t want to.

He’d complained to his sister once that he felt like their parents’ puppet. It was why he’d escaped as soon as he could. As soon as he finished university, he had slipped the requests for him to come home and had found a new home on the road, following a witcher and shaping his own life of adventure.

It was a small life, perhaps, but it was _his_ , and it makes him so fiercely _happy_.

He’s never felt this powerless before. He’s never been this much of a prisoner in his own body, being able to do nothing but watch as he speaks without wanting to, without being able to stop the words coming out of his mouth. Unable to stop as he says hateful things, _untrue_ things, to Geralt.

And Geralt just accepts them. He just stands there and lets Jaskier hurt him.

Jaskier wants to grab him, wants to shake some sense into him, but he can’t move. His body moves, but he can’t control it. He can’t even shift his littlest finger.

He meets Geralt’s eyes and he pleads silently for Geralt to realise what’s happening. Clearly something happened with the mage while Jaskier was outside helping the woodcutter’s daughter, so why won’t Geralt realise that this isn’t him?

But he doesn’t. He leaves, and Jaskier can’t even move his own hand to wipe away the tear that he feels fall.

*

Jaskier feels distantly glad that at least he’s allowed to take Annette back to her father. His body helps her up from where she’s curled up sobbing near where Roach had been waiting. She leans heavily on him as the three of them go together: the girl, his body, and Jaskier, a silent ghostly presence watching from behind his own eyes.

He thinks that he has a horrible feeling why he’s not allowed to move on his own, even though he’s pretty sure that Geralt was the target of the spell. The spell _knows_ that he would leave this poor girl in a heartbeat and chase after his witcher. He would do everything he could to fix this, and he’s getting the clear idea that he isn’t allowed to.

His mouth makes soothing words at Annette’s father as the two of them are reunited. It explains that the witcher has already murdered the mage—

 _It’s not murder_ , he screams in his head. _It’s not murder to kill a monster_.

‘Are you all right?’ asks the woodcutter, gently. ‘You’re crying. That must’ve been awful to see.’

‘It was terrible,’ says Jaskier’s mouth. ‘He was so brutal, so cruel.’

_He isn’t, he isn’t, he’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever known._

‘Well, witchers,’ says the woodcutter with a shrug. ‘There’s a reason why they always say not to call for a witcher unless you have to. Why don’t you come in, have a cup of tea, have a sit down.’

And maybe that would be nice, even if he can’t speak, to feel close to another person for just a moment.

‘I can’t,’ his mouth says. ‘Got to get back to the tavern. Can’t disappoint my public.’

The woodcutter gives him a long look, but shuffles his daughter inside and closes the door, leaving Jaskier outside.

His body takes him back to the tavern.

The spell puppets him through a lengthy three sets that night. He can’t help but notice that he isn’t allowed to sing any of his songs about Geralt.

He lies there in his bed in the tavern staring into the dark. Every muscle feels heavy and sore, as though he’d been marching up a mountain for three days without stop. He tries to remember everything he’s learnt from Geralt and (unwillingly) from Yennefer about curses and mind control. He’s pretty sure that in order for it to last for longer than a day, the mage needs to set this up with a lengthy spell. Which means that by the time he woke up, or at least by tomorrow afternoon, it ought to be broken.

He’ll ask around town to find out what direction Geralt went when he left, and he’ll follow after. He should be able to catch up with him sooner or later, and then he’ll be able to explain everything.

He hopes.

*

In the morning, his things are packed up. His lute is away in its case. He’s dressed and taken downstairs to eat the house’s breakfast speciality: a thin sour gruel made of barley mash, with cooked red currants on top.

He’s taken outside, and he finds a farmer on a cart who’s heading west, who’s willing to let him hitch a lift on his cart.

The scenery is probably nice. Jaskier can’t really tell. He can’t move his head.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He suspects it’s further from Geralt, and that suspicion seems to be confirmed several hours later when he can—he can _feel_ something sort of snap? And he knows somehow that Geralt has moved far enough away. The spell must be broken. He’ll be able to slip off the end of this cart and walk back to the town he left this morning, and ask around until he finds Geralt.

The scenery slips by. Jaskier sits and watches it without turning his head. It’s a long time until the farmer’s cart stops.

*

The weeks slowly drift away, and Jaskier’s feet drift too. The last days of summer fall away, and the rain and chill of autumn start to creep in at the collar of his doublet. He only has the vaguest idea of where he is. It’s hard to keep track when he can’t make any decisions about where he’s going.

At first, he’d tried to pay attention to everything that was happening to him, as though he was the understudy for a principal performer in the Beauclair Opera, and had to remember exactly how the principal moved and spoke his lines. But after the first couple of weeks, when the curse shows no sign of abating, he finds his attention wandering.

Sometimes he writes songs. It’s harder than normal, since he can’t play his lute in order to work through the tune, and he can’t write it down in his notebook. But it helps him feel like he still exists. And the masters at Oxenfurt always emphasised how important memorisation was.

Sometimes he thinks about what he’ll do when the curse breaks. Sometimes he imagines how it’ll break. Sometimes he imagines that Geralt realises something is terribly wrong, and comes for him. Sometimes he imagines that the curse just falls apart on its own, and he buys a horse and finds his witcher, and makes him realise just how much he’d never say any of those things, that Geralt is worth so much more than he ever seems to think.

He doesn’t always sleep well when his body is laid down in bed at the end of the day.

One of the worst parts, he thinks, is watching from within his body as it performs in inns and taverns, feeling his face smile when he doesn’t feel like smiling. Sometimes it’s the bawdy songs that hurt the most, with their good humour, when the last thing he feels like doing is winking and grinning. Sometimes it’s the ballads that hurt most, as his stolen voice fills with an emotion he doesn’t feel and isn’t trying to evoke.

One night he has to sit through a performance of ‘Her Sweet Kiss’, and he gets so angry that this curse dares to use this song, _this song_ , when it has stolen Geralt from his side. He can feel angry tears start to well up at the corner of his eyes. A woman catches his sleeve afterwards, and says she could tell that he really felt the sorrow of that song. Outward Jaskier simpers. Inward Jaskier fumes.

*

The one good thing about the way that the spell keeps him moving, he thinks, is that it might mean that he’ll find help. He can’t talk to anyone or ask them, but maybe, if he’s really lucky, someone will come across him who’ll realise what’s going on. There’s the slimmest of slim chances it’ll be Geralt, although he’s also fairly sure that the spell would probably stop them being anywhere near each other.

But there are other chances. He knows from travelling with Geralt for years that witchers can recognise curses. Mages, too, most likely. Even a healer _might_ spot it, if he’s lucky. And the further he travels, the more people he passes, the greater the chance that someone will help him, surely.

It’s well into autumn when it happens. The trees are bare, and the roads between towns smell of drifts of wet leaves and damp earth.

He arrives in a small town feeling put upon from an hour of rain soaking through his clothes to his skin. He’s wet to his _bones_. Although the rain has stopped for now, all he wants to do is find the tavern and get inside where it’s warm.

A figure in black armour has found the tavern first and is heading towards it. At first, his reaction is pure fear, but then he looks again and realises: no, not Nilfgaard. A _witcher_.

It isn’t Geralt. Of course it isn’t Geralt. He’s not even close to being that lucky. This witcher doesn’t have white hair. His is shorter and darker, though the colour is hard to tell, slicked down to his skull as it is with rain water. But he’s still going into the only tavern in this small town, and so is Jaskier. He’s long learnt the routine the spell makes him keep: go into the inn or tavern, try to bargain for a room, perform, go sleep, get up, move on. Which means he’ll be in a small tavern with a witcher, and Geralt told him that witchers could tell when people were cursed. He might get this thing broken _tonight_.

He’s perhaps an arm’s span from the witcher when he has this thought. His hopes have barely risen when he finds himself stopping in the street as though he’d forgotten his purse in his saddlebags, making a sharp turn, and determinedly walking away from the tavern.

No. No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t supposed to happen. _This isn’t supposed to happen_. It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s getting close to setting, but his body is just marching him out of town again. He’s not going to have enough time to get far before it’ll be too dark to set up camp. The clouds are still thick and dark, and the earlier rain isn’t going to be the last shower. He doesn’t have rations in his pack, and he doesn’t have a Geralt to go hunting. And worst of all, he doesn’t know if the spell will let him protect himself if something attacks his campsite. Every time it makes him camp in the wilderness he spends the whole night awake in terror. Please, _please,_ merciful Melitele, let him just go back to the tavern.

But he doesn’t get that choice. He sees—just—the witcher turn to look at him as he’s marched away. Probably smells the stark fear that’s no doubt pouring off him. He remembers Geralt growling that at a particularly unpleasant alderman in that village with the necrophages: _I can smell your fear. What aren’t you telling me?_

He asked Geralt about it later, when they were alone. _Was that the truth? Can you really smell fear?_ Remembers Geralt admitting that yes, it was true. He had an awful almost cowed look, like a street dog expecting the next kick. _Huh_ , Jaskier said. _You weren’t going to tell me?_ But Geralt said, _Never came up. Most people smell of fear around me, but you don’t. It’s restful._ And then he did his Geralt thing of clamming up, like he was afraid that Jaskier had noticed that he’d admitted to having A Feeling.

This witcher barely looks at him, his scarred face twisted into a sneer, before pushing the door of the tavern in and disappearing inside. Jaskier wants to scream. But of course that’s what happens: the one thing a witcher expects above all else is fear. If the rest of the world wasn’t so damn prejudiced, maybe he’d have had his help. If this witcher is half as noble as Geralt, he’d probably think, gosh, this nice young man is afraid! I should find out why! But instead, he thought, that man is terrified _of me_. Ho hum, just an ordinary life in the day of a tragically brave monster hunter.

Jaskier may be feeling a little hysterical.

He doesn’t get a campfire that night, and he feels very cold as he lies on his bedroll in the dark, not sleeping, as the rain comes down in waves. The next morning he’s thoroughly miserable, and he’s too hoarse to sing when he eventually reaches the next village on this road. He can’t help but feel like this is a punishment.

*

Three weeks later, the chill in the air is even more pronounced, and Jaskier is getting a little worried about the coming winter months. At least the curse doesn’t seem to actively want him dead, so he’ll probably be puppeted through some marketplace where he can get a warm winter cloak. He’ll probably be fine. He’s even getting close to Ellander, where there ought to be a decent market. Probably even an inn or tavern that might like a resident bard for the winter. And then, when it’s warm enough, no doubt he’ll be back on the road. Maybe the next time he runs into a witcher he’ll have better luck.

Instead, what happens is unexpected. That night, after his set, he’s approached by two official-looking men.

‘You Jaskier the bard?’ one says, looking distinctly unimpressed.

‘I am, may it please you, sirs,’ the spell makes him say. One arm is swept theatrically into a deep bow, which is frankly insulting. He isn’t half as flamboyant as this curse seems to think, and these two don’t deserve this much politeness anyway.

‘Duke Hereward wishes to offer you a position in his court,’ the other says.

 _The duke can get knotted_ , Jaskier wants to say. But instead, what comes out of his mouth is, ‘I would be honoured and delighted.’

Which isn’t at all how Jaskier feels about it. He doesn’t want to go be the pet plaything of a duke. This isn’t an offer to overwinter; it’s an ongoing position. This is a role that the curse won’t let him leave. This will be a place where he won’t be able to _find_ witchers to undo his curse.

Which is probably why the spell insists on his accepting it.

The golden aviary of the duke’s court doesn’t feel less like a cage simply because his body is already a golden birdcage of a smaller shape. At least his current cage still allows him new views, even if it allows him no movement. Being trapped in a court over winter will be suffocating.

He is ushered into a small enclosed carriage. The curtains are drawn against the encroaching night, which makes the space feel even smaller, even though there is little to be seen outside but darkness. Neither men speak to him, although they occasionally murmur amongst themselves. Jaskier tells himself that he is glad that he doesn’t have to sit there while his mouth makes conversation for him.

*

Jaskier has played for kings and queens and dukes before, but always for balls or banquets. He’s never fancied himself as a court musician, and he’s never wanted to be a solid fixture of some rich man’s household, unlike Valdo Marx, the self-proclaimed troubadour of Cidaris.

He’s always been performing at these occasions by special invitation, and thus is something of a special guest.

He’s fascinated to discover that being a court musician isn’t very similar at all. Even though most evenings there is usually a point where the duke will call him forward and bid him play something, this is actually a tiny fraction of what his role is. Most of what he and the other musicians do is play ignorable tunes for people to eat and talk and argue over, and bright, quick jigs for sets of dancing.

Playing for dancers isn’t something he’s done much, not since university. Certainly not with this frequency. He wonders if his fingers will remember the speed and regularity he’s picking up once he has control of them again.

The biggest difference is the way that court musicians are expected to be decoratively musical pieces of furniture. It’s _almost_ a good thing that he isn’t in control of his mouth; he’s sure he would’ve insulted the duke several times in the first week or so simply through not ‘understanding his place’. It isn’t as though he didn’t grow up in this milieu, nor did he skip his etiquette classes for musicians at university.

But being the child of a low-level noble and being a troubadour are very different social roles, and—well, truthfully, he’s developed terrible habits travelling with Geralt. Geralt has very little patience for most of this pomp and circumstance, and both his being a witcher and his insistent bull-headedness has meant he often refuses to follow social mores when dealing with either royalty or the nobility. Since said royalty or nobility are usually either afraid of him or have need of his services, he's gotten away with it awfully often. And Geralt's unique position has protected Jaskier from the consequences of more than one thoughtless remark.

There’s no Geralt here to protect him this time.

He’s also found out from Hildraed, the tambour player, that the duke _hates_ witchers, so that’s another narrow escape. Without all of his songs about Geralt being forcibly retired from his repertoire, there’s little doubt he would have annoyed the duke immensely. Possibly with consequences worse than sudden unemployment. So that’s another thing to be thankful for.

(Of course, if he wasn’t cursed, there is no chance that he would have taken up the position here. But that isn’t a very helpful thing to dwell upon.)

The duke and duchess mostly ignore them, which is frankly relieving. Osgar, who plays symphonia, says that the duke has a foul temper, and Jaskier is very glad to only be near that temper while he has no control over what came out of his mouth, since the curse seems to be far more circumspect that he is himself. Before this, he often said things he didn’t intend to. But at least they were always things he’d _thought_.

(‘You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting,’ is going to haunt his wakeful nights until he _dies_ , he swears. Ugh, it’s a wonder he ever managed to convince Geralt to let him travel with him after a line like that.)

When he’s been here perhaps three weeks, the duchess approaches him while he is setting up for the evening and ensuring he’s in tune.

‘You’ve played all your songs already,’ she says, towering over where he’s seated on a low stool. This is probably deliberate, Jaskier reflects. Even his passing familiarity with court has taught him that one takes advantages where one can, especially if one is small and slight and—well, a woman. (Or a scandalously disobedient son who sleeps with men as well as women, which Jaskier discovered growing up was nearly as bad.)

‘We’ve not yet begun for the evening, your grace,’ his mouth says, and even Jaskier is a little confused at her meaning.

‘No, I mean we’ve heard all of your songs. I had hoped that you would write something new while you were here.’

Jaskier wonders if the duchess is the reason that he has this position. That makes more sense as to why Hereward would engage the one bard known for travelling with the witchers he despises. But then, Jaskier has actually made something of a name for himself by now, and dukes can be just as petty as kings and queens; if some other duke had wanted to engage him, that could have been enough for Hereward to send out his invitation. It’s a shame he’ll likely never know.

‘I hope to soon. I would hate to disappoint you, your grace,’ the curse says.

Jaskier wishes he could grin. He _has_ finished a couple of songs, but the curse won’t let him sing them. One explicitly details the curse that he’s under, and the other is a metaphorical one about a caged nightingale which wastes away for want of the blue sky. It is good to know that the curse can’t … can’t take over his _mind_ and make him write something he doesn’t want to. It has its limits. This is the greatest sense of comfort he’s had in quite some time. Months, perhaps.

‘I am rarely disappointed,’ says the duchess with a sniff. The threat is clear: write her a song, or lose your position. Tonight is doubly blessed: finally he has a way of leaving. Hopefully they won’t throw him out to freeze in the depths of winter. Hopefully if they do, the curse won’t make him freeze. Probably. Surely it would let him try to seek shelter?

Even with those small clouds on the horizon, this is the first ray of hope that he’s seen. The duke and duchess will get tired of him and let him leave.

His face smiles, and his body bows, the best it can on the stool, and he says, ‘As you wish, your grace.’

*

The duke and duchess are hosting a ball for Midwinter. Jaskier and the other musicians have been in rehearsals for a week, to get all the tunes down as smoothly as possible. Most of them are ones that they’ve already been playing, but there are a few new tunes that the duchess has _insisted_ are learnt, one of which has come straight from Redania (‘the _latest_ thing,’ she said, ‘the absolute _latest_.’), and apparently a ball would not be complete without a Schellighe, so three Skelligan tunes are also added. There are jongleurs who will be performing, who require specific music to juggle to, and mummers, who have music cues for their play.

Jaskier hasn’t had to cram like this since Oxenfurt. He finds himself falling asleep the instant he falls onto his straw pallet.

Ceadda, who plays shawm, has an unfortunate fit of artistic temperament six days before Midwinter, and threatens leaving. He says he’s going to go and become a sheep-milker or something; Jaskier honestly stops listening. Leofgyth (vielle) has to talk him down, and he still has several fits of obstinacy as Midwinter creeps closer, and Jaskier can tell it’s wearing on the rest of the musicians.

The working areas of the castle are busy as a beehive in the couple of weeks leading up to midwinter, and with the same near-deafening hum. The kitchens are preparing all that they can in advance; the scalding-house seems to be constantly working to prepare the animals slaughtered in the lead up to the feast. The chandlery is likewise gearing up, processing the excess tallow into candles, many of which will be used during the ball itself. The laundry is constantly pushing billows of steam out through the corridors as every item of napery in the castle gets washed, along with what seems to be the entire household’s wardrobe.

That’s one novelty about living in a castle, Jaskier’s found; he has a candle end on a saucer in his room, and not the rushlights he’s been used to in inns and taverns on the road. It feels—not just luxurious, but almost wasteful, somehow? Even though the castle provides more than enough tallow and lard to make candles, with all the people it feeds. But still. Years of habit are hard to break.

Three days out, and Eadgyth, their harp player, finds out that Jaskier doesn’t know many of the dances they’ll be playing for, so she talks him through the steps for Maribor, then makes Osgar play the tune so they can all dance. Eadgyth claims Jaskier, of course, so she can instruct him as they go. Ceadda takes Leofgyth’s hand, and he turns out to be surprisingly graceful. Wilfred, their flute player, has a twisted foot that he’s had since birth, so he shrugs from the stool he’s sitting on, but since they’ve an odd number, no-one gives him a hard time. They’ve not enough women in their company, so Hildraed gives his hand to Bada (their hornpipe player) and tells him he doesn’t mind being the girl this one time. Bada rolls his eyes.

It’s a lot of fun, and they’re all grinning and giggling by the end, and a little out of breath. Even Ceadda looks more relaxed. It isn’t until they all go to pick up their instruments again that Jaskier realises that he’d forgotten that he can’t move on his own. Eadgyth moved him about the floor neatly, in the way a good dance partner will, and although he is used to taking the lead role in a dance, this is far from the first time that he’s let himself be led. There’s a quietness of mind to it, where you just let yourself _be_ in your body, feeling the directions from your partner through touch and movement and pressure. He’d let himself go, and since the curse wasn’t fighting against what he wanted to do, for the space of a dance he’d been allowed to forget it existed.

He wishes he could just take a moment to sit down and grieve. But no, once again this isn’t for him. His fingers are already checking the tuning of the lute’s strings, and his head is already turning to ask whether Maribor will be played in the first set of dances before dinner.

*

The hall is slowly transformed in the week leading up to Midwinter. Enormous boughs of evergreen are dragged in, and the pages help the men string them up. Smaller branches get put aside for burning in fireplaces, and the broken ones wind up being cast aside for someone to take them outside to chop them up into smaller pieces. Pine needles drop on the floor and are crushed underfoot, so that everywhere starts to smell like a forest.

Jaskier actually runs into one of the smaller pages, Uhtric, who drops his armful of shorter boughs and looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Jaskier’s not surprised; everyone’s on edge this week, and that often means people are shouting at those lower down in the pecking order. Pages are right at the bottom of that order, unfortunately for Uhtric. He helps the boy pick up the branches, and gets the boy to hold out his arms so Jaskier can arrange them so that the branches are unlikely to be dropped again.

‘There,’ he said. ‘No harm done. You’ve all done such a great job in the hall. It looks magical. All secure now?’

The boy bites his lip and nods, and hurries off, at a _very_ _slightly_ slower pace.

The smell of spices and cooked meats and fruits finally starts to waft through the corridors to beat out the scent of lye and wet wool and linen from the laundry in the last couple of days. Jaskier hasn’t been to a proper banquet in an _age_ , and the smell of cloves and cinnamon is making his mouth water. He hasn’t been able to afford either for the last six months or so—he and Geralt have had a particularly lean year. And the curse doesn’t care about buying fripperies; it hasn’t bothered to seek out markets in any of the larger towns to see if he could possibly purchase a small amount of pepper or ginger. At least herbs were always available in the wild—Jaskier started with his herbcraft in a desperate attempt to have some kind of flavour with whatever meat Geralt had caught. Once he could reliably find sage and dill and cumin, it only made sense to start learning how to spot hyssop and clary sage, and to gather chamomile flowers when he found them. Then Geralt started pointing out other herbs that he gathered for his potions. And, well, Jaskier likes to feel useful. He still has the last of the chamomile balm in a small clay pot in the bottom of his pack, with the waxed linen still tied in place from when he made it.

The curse hasn’t made him throw it out yet. And he still uses some of the dregs from the old pot on his own forearms or shoulders when they seize up from too much playing, so he’s hoping he’ll be allowed to keep it. He likes that it’s still there, though. It reminds him of who he made it for. He doesn’t let himself think about it much, because he’s learnt from the incident with the strange witcher that thinking about things that the curse doesn’t like is dangerous. But it gives him a brief flutter of happiness when it gets unearthed when he goes through his things.

All the musicians have a new outfit for Midwinter. The tailor and his apprentice had measured them up weeks ago, and Jaskier had rather forgotten about it until he went back to the room he shared with Ceadda after dinner. Jaskier is just fingering the silk and wishing that they could’ve had something in wool instead, when a page summons him to the Ewery. It’s not Uhtric; it’s the blond one who doesn’t like porridge. Jaskier is still trying to remember the boy’s name when the kid opens the door to the Ewery. There are a couple of large wooden baths set up inside, with hanging draperies half-hiding them from view.

Wilfred’s head pokes out. ‘Jaskier!’ he calls. ‘Come on in.’

Jaskier’s hands are already undoing the dozen buttons of his doublet.

‘Sweet Melitele, I love festivals,’ groans Ceadda. Jaskier can just make out his shape within the bath tent. He’s lying back with his head resting against the side of the tub.

‘That’s not what you were fucking saying yesterday,’ snorts Hildraed.

‘I love the baths we get before festivals,’ Ceadda continues, as though Hildraed hasn’t spoken. ‘No jug and basin tonight. No trying to get some small square of skin clean and trying to get it dry and under your clothes again before ice forms.’

‘As though you ever get clean,’ Osgar says. ‘I’ve smelt you after rehearsal.’

Jaskier drops his clothes on the low bench nearby and climbs into the tub, letting the heavy curtains hang mostly closed behind him. He can’t help but gasp at how warm the water is. The air is warmer, too; the hanging fabric holds in the heat from the bath, instead of all the warmth vanishing into the aether. The grey stones of the castle seem to emit an almost palpable chill this late in the year. But finally he’s properly warm for the first time in months. Ceadda’s right; it’s nice to bathe when he doesn’t have to worry about letting any of himself rise above the level of the bath and feeling the room’s chill dig its fingers in. He sinks into the water with a sigh.

‘I just naturally sweat a lot—’

‘Maybe you should change your shirt more than once a month then—’

There’s a brief shoving match, forestalled when Bada shoves them apart, and holds Osgar in place.

‘Children,’ he says, and they subside.

The room is well lit with candles, but there’s barely any light in here, aside from what creeps in through the gap in the curtains. But then, does he need to see in order to get clean? Probably not.

There is a muffled feminine giggle; Leofgyth and Eadgyth must be in the other bath, probably with the duchess’s ladies’ maids.

‘So, lads, what do we think about this year’s costume?’ says Hildraed.

He passes a linen cloth to Jaskier, who takes it gratefully. He hasn’t had a bath since he separated from Geralt, and he feels like he won't be clean until he scrubs half his skin off.

‘Fucking silk again,’ says Wilfred. ‘It’s all right for them as is getting up and dancing, but us mugginses will be freezing our arses off. _Again_.’

‘It's not my arse I'm worried about,’ gripes Bada. ‘It's my fucking fingers. I always start fucking up as they get colder. And it’s worse when you can’t feel them at all. Last midwinter I heard one of the ladies say it was a _shame_ that the horn player was a _drunk_. Fucking enraging.’

‘Try playing shawm,’ says Ceadda bitterly. ‘Everyone can hear every sour note. At least Hildraed doesn’t have to worry.’

‘I’m on my last fucking nerve with you, Ceadda, and you’re fucking plucking it,’ snaps Hildraed.

‘You’re a lovely tambour player,’ Ceadda says dismissively. ‘But it’s not exactly an instrument that requires fine motor skills, is it?’

‘I wonder what the girls’ costume looks like,’ interrupts Osgar. ‘Leofgyth has been petitioning for those women’s doublets, since they’d be warmer. She might get lucky since they’re apparently all the rage in Redania.’

‘Or Her Grace might just say that they’re “not ladylike”,’ says Wilfred. ‘I know where I’d lay my money.’

‘What do you reckon, Jaskier?’ says Osgar. ‘You’re always so quiet. Tomorrow’s outfit live up to your expectations, o worldly and famous bard?’

‘I mostly wore wool when I performed. Since I was travelling,’ he begins slowly. He wishes he could leave it there, but the curse isn’t so kind. ‘Of course, that was when I was so foolish as to be travelling with the Butcher of Blaviken.’

Jaskier wishes he could bite his own tongue, or cover his mouth, or drown himself in the bathtub. _Anything_ to stop those words.

Bada lets out a low whistle. ‘Didn’t realise it was the Butcher you travelled with. It’s a good thing you never sang those songs about him. Witchers are a dangerous subject around the duke, but the _Butcher_ … There’s some sort of history there that you don’t want to get involved with. Stay clear of Count Falwick, too. He’s got an axe to grind, and he might consider you a worthy grinding stone in the witcher’s absence.’

‘Noted,’ says Jaskier with a dry mouth. He wonders if he’s overestimated the curse’s interest in keeping him alive. Maybe it simply wants to manoeuvre him into a more amusing death.

Oh, plague take him— _Geralt_. If Jaskier dies because of this feud Count Falwick has with him, it’s going to _destroy_ Geralt. Jaskier’s still not completely certain where he stands with him, not since the mountain shook his certainty. Even though they’ve travelled together since. But Geralt takes everything to heart; he’d barely known Renfri, and he still holds his failure to save her to his breast, in a way he will barely speak of. Even if—even if he doesn’t care for Jaskier the way Jaskier hopes (dreams) he could, even if he _hates_ Jaskier for what the curse made him say, Jaskier knows it would undo him.

‘Come on,’ says Wilfred, giving him a shove. ‘Best finish up. There’s a lot more people waiting for the baths. And pass me my crutch.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ says Jaskier, climbing out. There’s a pile of linen towels on a low stool. He wraps one around him, and finds Wilfred’s crutch.

‘I could stay in there forever,’ Wilfred sighs, perching on the edge of the wooden tub. ‘My leg stops cramping when it’s in the water. Maybe when I leave here I’ll go find a position at a bathhouse. Come on, get dressed and I’ll race you back to our room.’

*

The smell of spices and roasted meats is redolent in the air of the hall. They’re playing beautifully, and Jaskier has even been allowed a glass of spiced wine—the curse doesn’t let him seek out pleasure, but a servant brought goblets to the musicians, and his hand took the cup offered.

He’s not even particularly cold: Osgar, a veteran of the duke’s winter solstice celebrations, had loaned him a fine wool shirt and long woollen braies to wear under their silk outfit, and it’s certainly helping. There is a fire of fragrant evergreen boughs in the fireplace, but the fireplace is far from where the musicians are set up, and the ceiling in the hall is high and it swallows much of the heat. But between his woollen underthings and his mulled wine (which is warming his insides, as well as warming his hands when he’s not playing), he’s perfectly toasty.

Count Falwick is not to be seen, either, and Jaskier heard tell that he has fallen from the duke’s favour and won’t make an appearance at all.

He’s something approaching happy.

Hildraed, Wilfred and Bada are playing a lively set of reels to give the rest of them a brief break. Jaskier leans against a pillar, sipping his wine and thinking contented thoughts when one of the guests approaches and the bottom drops out of his stomach.

It’s Yennefer.

Of _all the people_ who actually know him, it has to be the person least likely to realise something is wrong, and least likely to care or to help. He can feel his heart pound painfully in his chest, and he can only pray that the curse doesn’t antagonise her beyond her patience. Geralt isn’t here to pour oil on Yennefer’s troubled waters.

‘Bard,’ she says. ‘Where’s Geralt? I have business with him.’

‘How should I know?’ his mouth snaps. ‘You know I’ve not seen him.’

She frowns. ‘That’s not true. You were travelling with him after the dragon hunt. I know you were.’

‘Yes, but not anymore,’ his mouth blusters. ‘I don’t care for his company any more.’

‘What changed, then?’

‘Nothing,’ his mouth snaps. ‘I simply realised what kind of man he’s always been.’

‘ _That’s_ not true, either. I know you. I know _him_. You’re lying to me.’ She steps closer, closing the gap between them.

‘I’m not—’

She grabs his chin and forces him to look into her bright violet eyes. He has a strange feeling, a sense of pressure in his head.

‘Something happened to you,’ she says, her gaze intense. ‘A curse. How long—? It’s strong. You will accompany me to my chamber after this.’

Yennefer turns and leaves, heading back to the banquet. He watches her go, a dove—no, a kite—in a flock of sparrows.

Jaskier is afraid to turn around. He knows the others who aren’t playing—Leofgyth, Osgar, Eadgyth and Ceadda—will have been watching. He doesn't want to see their faces. He doesn't get a choice.

His hands pick up his lute. They check the tuning of his strings. His head looks up at them.

‘So, which set are we playing next?’

‘That's Yennefer of Vengerberg,’ says Osgar faintly. ‘Duke Hereward has been trying to get her to join his court. I knew you were famous, but you're really on friendly terms with _Yennefer of Vengerberg_?’

‘Not really,’ he says, feeling wry, although the words that leave his mouth simply sound bored. ‘She and my former travelling companion have an epic romance written in the stars, and sometimes I was there when it was unfolding. Or when it was foundering on the rocks of their passion.’

‘I didn’t think witchers could feel love,’ said Ceadda, watching some of the guests and sipping his ale. Jaskier bets it’s the woman in the low-cut red bodice, but he can’t turn his head to check. He can’t help but feel a wave of irritation with Ceadda, but it’s not as though this isn't a common misconception about witchers. Even Geralt has repeated it to him as though it’s fact. As though Jaskier hasn’t spent twenty years watching Geralt care intensely about nearly everyone he meets.

‘I think a witcher and a sorceress sounds romantic,’ says Eadgyth. ‘I think you could write an entire song cycle about a witcher and a sorceress in love.’

 _You probably could_ , thinks Jaskier. _If you thought it was romantic. If you weren’t in love with the witcher_. Eadgyth is right, though: it really is the exact kind of thing that he could make into a series of songs. Or he could compose a lyric poem of chivalric romance that took five hours to recite, if he were a troubadour like Valdo Marx.

He thinks, with some annoyance, as his eyes stare out across the hall, watching the guests, that Geralt and Yennefer’s story would be the perfect subject for a poem, hitting all the usual marks in a romance. He doesn’t _want_ to write it, and glorify one of the larger heartbreaks of his life. But it would work so very well. A witcher may not be a knight, but in truth a witcher is closer to a poet’s idea of a knight than most knights that Jaskier has met. Geralt especially, with his handcrafted witcher’s code, and his barely spoken of but painfully earnest concept of good and evil. Slaughtering monsters is a feature of many of the most popular poetry cycles, after all. Even defending a helpless dragon’s egg from marauders would, if spun correctly, be precisely the kind of chivalric deed that would work well as the focus for a canto. He rather thinks he might leave his own presence out entirely, especially in regards to the djinn. Although perhaps he could create a fictional page for Geralt to save instead?

He can _feel_ how he would structure the poem, if he were to write it. He’d barely need to stretch the truth; both Geralt and Yennefer are such perfectly larger-than-life people that he can see their romance with a poet’s eye, can see which parts he would emphasise, and which parts he would trim away. _The Lay of Destiny_ has a nice ring to it.

The assembled guests have begun the first of a set of dances, forming rings of people holding hands. Jaskier and the rest of the musicians begin playing. Jaskier’s fingers could play this tune without his needing to think about it, so he lets them play and lets himself get completely caught up in the excitement of the early stages of composition, when the words feel like they want to rush to his tongue and fingertips. This is his favourite part of composing, before the stage where each word has to be painstakingly excavated, or carved out new from stone, the stage where the writing felt like gruelling work. Now, the work is full of promise, and he feels giddy with the possibilities. He hasn’t written this length of poem before, since usually he writes songs. Rondeaus, yes, and the other _formes fixes_ ; a couple of embarrassing pastorals when he was at university, before he’d spent all that time wandering the _actual_ countryside; and countless number of sonnets, often given away to their subject. But not a lengthy poem for recitation. It would be _very_ satisfying to beat Valdo Marx at his own preferred artistic endeavour at the next bardic competition. He hasn’t entered the recitation section before, since so many of them are just a load of wank, in his professional opinion. But _this_ poem, this one has _promise_.

When Jaskier isn’t on the road, he often paces while he composes, especially when he’s in Oxenfurt, in rooms of his own, where he’s unlikely to disturb an easily irritated travelling companion. It gives his body something to do so that he can focus, since he’s never been very good at sitting still. It helps him think. And it helps him feel out the _pulse_ of the verse or song. So perhaps he ought to be forgiven for not noticing at first that his arms have swung his lute onto his back, and that his feet are taking him out the door of the hall.

He realises what is happening as his body is pulling open the heavy wooden door, and he recalls that he heard several hissed remarks from the others as he left. He knows what’s happening. He isn’t allowed to stay, because Yennefer has said that she will meet with him after the ball, and that’s good enough for the curse to take steps to protect itself.

If only the wretched thing had waited. This is only the second set of dancing. There’s still the jongleurs to come next, and then another couple of sets of dancing, and then the mummers, and then yet more dancing. Worst of all is the fact that Jaskier was meant to have a set later, as one of the high points of the evening. He isn’t sore at missing out on that; he couldn’t care less for this crowd. But the duke and duchess— _especially_ the duchess, he suspects—will notice he’s gone when it’s time for his performance spot. And they may feel embarrassed or slighted at his absence, especially with so many high-ranking guests. Including one of the most powerful sorceresses on the continent. And an embarrassed or slighted noble, especially one who’s virtually a prince of his own realm, is a dangerous thing, likely to send out arrest warrants at best. Jaskier doesn’t want to think of the worse options. He prays that the rest of the musicians cover for him, that they say he’s come down with something terrible. Vomiting. The pox. Anything. Even if it’s embarrassing.

 _The itch, the stitch, the palsy or the gout,_ he thinks hysterically, remembering the many rehearsals of the mummer’s play he’d sat through. _Pains within, or pains without._

The tightness in his chest loosens a little when he realises that his feet are taking him back to his room, as he was hoping they would. He was praying he’d be allowed to gather his things before fleeing into the night. He’ll need something warmer than the festival clothes he’s wearing if he’s to survive the next few months of winter. Not to mention that his travelling clothes are a damn sight more subfusc than this peacock-blue silk suit, as beautiful as it is.

It doesn't take him long to stuff his scant possessions back into his pack, and to put his lute away in its case. He swings the case onto his back, and shoulders his pack. He wishes he could leave the others a note to explain. And to apologise to Osgar for making off with his shirt and braies, since he’s clearly going to walk out of here wearing them.

He turns, and blocking the doorway is a slender figure, silhouetted against the torchlight of the corridor. The sharp angles of its features are limned with gold from the candle end guttering in its saucer.

The figure steps forward and shows its teeth.

‘Well, well, Jaskier,’ says Yennefer. ‘You haven’t annoyed me with a crass remark all evening. And now you're intending to leave me with that room of crashing bores without a single snide remark at anyone’s expense? How disappointing. And most unlike you. Let’s see what we can do about that.’

The smell of lilacs and gooseberries overwhelms Jaskier until he's dizzy with it, until he can taste it on the back of his tongue. And then his eyes close—just for a moment—and he knows nothing at all.

*

He wakes to find he’s lying on a soft feather bed. He’s not in his own room, then; his bed has a straw-stuffed mattress.

There’s a rich scarlet canopy above him, which is probably why he feels less cold than he usually does on waking. Especially since he seems to be lying on top of the blankets. He waits for his body to decide it’s time to move, but after a while he realises it isn’t going to, because it can’t. He can feel his whole body is rigid with strain as it tries to move and it can’t. Every major muscle from his neck down is starting to ache with the futile effort. He can feel himself start to panic, can feel that his breath is too shallow. He tries to calm himself down, tries to breathe deeply, but it’s so hard. He’s been trapped for months, been a phantom haunting his own body for so long, and it feels like every time something changes, it’s for the worse. Every time the box he’s locked in gets smaller.

His head is spinning again, and his chest hurts. Maybe he’s dying. Maybe this is the end of it.

‘You’re awake.’ It’s Yennefer’s voice. It knocks him out of his stream of panic. He remembers the banquet last night; he remembers Yennefer finding him in his room.

He wishes he could ask her what’s happened since.

She bends over him so he can see her face. It feels like the kindest thing anyone’s done for him for months.

‘I had to restrain you,’ she says. ‘Your curse wasn’t going to let you stay. It’s temporary, at least.’

He doesn’t reply, since he can’t.

‘It’s a nasty, complex curse you have,’ she continues. ‘It’s taking quite some untangling to break.’

She disappears from above him, but he can hear her moving about the room now he knows to listen for it.

‘The thing that’s really irritating,’ Yennefer says conversationally from somewhere on his left, ‘is that the whole thing has far more power than it should, considering how it’s constructed. It isn’t exactly a work of subtle genius. It’s like seeing a bird’s nest, and discovering it’s been built with wire and iron straws. It’s vexing.’

There are soft sounds that he can’t make out, of items being moved or laid out, perhaps. A couple of chinking sounds that could be glass being knocked together.

Yennefer’s quiet, and he wishes she would speak. He would laugh if he could; Yennefer would probably laugh herself sick if she knew. Or make a sarcastic little smirk, which he suspects comes to the same thing. Neither of them has ever had a kind word to spare for the other; right now he feels like even hearing her verbally take him apart would be comforting.

There are more soft noises, and the sound of what sounds like a small metal object being placed on the flagstone floor. He wonders what on earth that could be—a ritual knife, perhaps?—but a while later he’s awash in scented smoke and he realises. Incense. She must have a thurible.

He can hear her chanting now. His Elder speech is very rusty these days; it has been a horrifyingly long time since he left Oxenfurt. He can catch individual words, but not the meaning of the whole sentences. _That_ one, that’s ‘curse’. He remembers that one well enough. And that one is—‘wool’? No, wait, that’s not quite the right word. It’s probably not ‘sheep’; that would be a weird word to use in a spell. ‘Thread’, possibly? Or maybe it’s an entirely different word that just sounds similar.

If he’d _known_ he was going to spend his life gadding about with witchers and mages, and getting caught up in spells and curses, he might’ve paid more attention in class. (Possibly. Possibly not. He had never been very good at making himself do things that bored him, and that certainly wasn’t less true of himself at fifteen.)

There is a quiet fizzle sound, following with the smell of something like burning hair. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, and then realises what he’s done. Still—it might be like the night where Eadgyth danced with him. Perhaps it’s what the curse would’ve done anyway. He needs to not get his hopes up.

He can move his eyes.

Yennefer appears in his field of view again.

‘That should be the curse broken. Now I’m just going to release you from _my_ spell.’

He makes a noise of acknowledgement. He can’t remember the last time he had even this small amount of control over his mouth. Well. He can remember. He just can’t remember how _long ago_ it was. He didn’t know when he woke that morning that it was a red-letter day: his last day of freedom.

Yennefer makes complicated hand movements that almost remind him of playing cat’s cradle with his little sister as a child and he almost smiles.

‘There. You should be able to move now.’

Jaskier slowly moves to sit up on the bed. It feels deeply strange to think about moving, and having his body respond. He feels rusty all over, the way one does when picking up a childhood instrument for the first time in a decade. All his muscles are aching from the curse fighting Yennefer’s spell for—how long has it been? Why does his whole body feel like he’s put on someone else’s ill-fitting suit?

He looks at his hands. He turns them over, flexes his fingers. They look much the same as always.

‘Say something,’ Yennefer says, impatiently.

‘Thank you,’ he says, roughly. His eyes are filling with hot tears, and spilling out over his cheeks. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Yennefer. She must think he’s so weak. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying.

He waits for her to make a sharp remark, but she doesn’t. She makes a little noise that in someone else he might call ‘distressed’. The feather mattress shifts slightly as she sits down on the bed. He opens his eyes. She’s perched on the edge looking uncomfortable.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Are you … all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m—’ He looks away. ‘I didn’t think it was ever going to get broken,’ he whispers.

He glances back at her and she’s frowning. ‘Why didn’t Geralt help?’

‘I—I drove him away. The curse made me _say_ things. And he left.’ Another tear. Plague take him. He hasn’t cried like this since he was a boy. He kept it together better on the mountain.

‘And he didn’t _notice_ you were _cursed_?’ says Yennefer—angrily? He thought Yennefer and Geralt had sorted things out since the mountain. This is bewildering.

‘To be fair,’ says Jaskier slowly, ‘they were the kind of things that Geralt is always waiting for people to say to him, I think. And the mage was dead when I came back into the cottage. I think—I think he thought he’d stopped the curse.’

‘He must’ve been a moment too late,’ says Yennefer, looking wrecked. ‘Fuck. That must be why the spell was so strong.’

‘What?’ he croaks.

Yennefer crosses the room to a little table with a jug and a couple of cups. ‘The curse should’ve fallen apart on its own after a day or two. A week at the outside.’

Jaskier makes a little involuntary noise of pain. A _week_.

She pours him a cup of water and brings it over. ‘When we harness chaos, we tap into the life of ourselves, and things around us. I think that Geralt managed to kill the mage at the moment of the spell’s release, so that his life got … sent into the spell without anyone intending for that to happen. Like pouring oil onto a fire.’

‘Oh.’

Jaskier takes a sip of water. It’s the best thing that he’s tasted in months. He drains the cup in a few swallows. Yennefer takes it from his unresisting hands and goes to refill it again.

‘I thought it was me,’ he admits to her back.

‘What?’

‘I thought that the curse could tell that I’d do everything I could to undo the hurt it did to Geralt, so it just didn’t let me go.’

Yen brings him the refilled cup. ‘That’s not the way this works. Well. Not with the curse you had. Something that complex would’ve needed a lot of careful ritual preparation. The one I took apart felt a lot more … improvised than that.’

She pats his arm awkwardly and his eyes feel hot and prickly again. He takes a gulp of water.

‘So,’ he says cheerily. ‘How likely am I to get executed by the duke for not performing last night? Not to mention distracting his most important special guest.’

‘It’s cute that you think that stopping you leaving took all night,’ she says, a familiar smirk settling over her features. ‘I put you to bed then went back to the feast.’

‘I was looking forward to that feast,’ he groans. ‘Maethilde in the kitchens said they were roasting several pigs whole.’

Yen hums. ‘A page brought in a boar’s head on a platter surrounded by ivy before they brought in the main remove. It was very impressive.’

‘I haven’t had roast pig in forever,’ he moans. ‘Sweet Melitele, I’m _hungry_. I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.’

‘I’ll have someone send something up.’

Yen sticks her head outside the door and flags down some passing servant, and exchanges a brief word or two. She closes the door again, and Jaskier can’t help but feel relieved that she isn’t leaving him just yet. It’s been so long since he’s had a conversation with someone.

‘You, ah … you didn't say whether the duke is angry that I didn't perform last night. Do I need to climb out your window?’ he says, only half joking.

Yen shakes her head. ‘I said that I suspected you'd been cursed by one of his enemies, and that I'd removed you to keep him safe.’

‘Oh. Good? I think? Still, how angry was he? Is this a “You'll be fine until I leave” kind of situation, where I get strung up after the scary witch is gone?’

‘He'd better not,’ growls Yen, ‘or _I'll_ be angry.’

He gives her a weak smile. Today is very confusing. Why is everything so confusing?

‘I don't really want to stay anyway,’ he confesses. ‘I just want to find Geralt and—and apologise.’

‘Come with me, then. I'm on my way to find Geralt. We can travel together.’

‘Oh! O-okay.’ He frowns. ‘I thought you didn't know where Geralt was? You asked me last night if I knew.’

‘I don't _know_ where he is,’ she says. ‘But I heard tell that he has been laid up in the Temple of Melitele. I just thought when I saw you that it must've been old news, that he must've left already.’

‘Nenneke’s temple?’

Yen nods.

‘Fuck, that's not far from here at all,’ he says.

There's a confusing wash of emotions running through him—relief, fear, cautious joy. He could see Geralt _soon_. He could make this better! But what could he possibly say to make this better?

There's a knock at the door. Yen answers it and brings over a tray of food. There's a big bowl of hot porridge, and smaller dishes of dainties that look like last night's leftovers.

‘Eat,’ she says. ‘Start with the porridge. We can make plans once you're done.’

*

The advantage of travelling with Yennefer is that she could cut a journey of three days down to nearly nothing by creating a portal. Which will definitely save his feet, which are not as used to days of walking as they used to be.

The disadvantage of travelling with Yennefer is that a three-day journey was now a journey of mere minutes, and Jaskier still had no idea what he was going to say once they got to the temple.

‘What if he won’t see me,’ he says quietly. Ostensibly he’s talking to Yen, but he doubts she’ll listen any more than Geralt does when they’re walking. He just finds that talking things out loud calms him, especially if they’re things he’s worrying about.

‘He’ll see you,’ Yen says, striding along, not bothering to look at him.

‘You don’t know that,’ he says irritably. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but why didn’t you portal us straight to the temple? This seems … an oddly indirect route for you.’

Yen doesn’t reply, but her mouth compresses into a thin line.

‘Did Nenneke ban you from portalling into the temple grounds?’ he asks.

Yen makes no reply, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t show that she’s heard, but he _knows_. He can _tell_.

‘She did, didn’t she?’ he laughs. ‘Nice to know I’m not the only one.’

Yennefer looks over at him, her old haughty expression back in place, which—huh. He hadn’t noticed quite how much she’d relaxed around him the last couple of days. He realises he’d got several genuine smiles from her, the kind he’d previously only seen directed at Geralt.

‘Sorry, did you say something?’ she says.

‘Who, me?’ he grins. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Hmm,’ she says, turning away, but Jaskier catches the brief flash of a suppressed smile.They don't speak for awhile. Jaskier hears birdsong in a nearby copse. He looks over, and there's a robin redbreast, flying almost parallel with the road. Jaskier watches it until it disappears into the branches, for the sheer novelty of it.

'You're quiet,' Yen says.

'Hmm?'

'I've travelled with you before,' she reminds him. 'I remember what you were like on the mountain. You talked as though your legs would stop working if you closed your mouth. In the space of one hour, you talked about how to woo a girl with flowers –'

'How to woo a lover,' Jaskier corrects. It's not his fault that people assume things, but he has managed to secure the favour of more than one gentleman of his acquaintance with a floral tribute.

'How to woo a _lover_ ,' Yen repeats. She's walking a little ahead of him, so he can't see her face, but she manages to indicate that she's rolling her eyes through her tone of voice alone. 'Then a detailed critique of the recent trend for pastoral poetry in the eisteddfods of Aedirn; a lengthy ponder on whether or not dragon guts could be used as lute strings, and whether they'd be better than your current strings in terms of resonance and longevity; a query to apparently nobody in particular about how they make lute strings usually, and whether one needs some kind of licence or membership of a guild to find out; whether you remembered to pay your guild membership when you left town at the end of winter; a stray remark about whether that passing bird was a flycatcher or not, what do you think, Geralt; who decided on all of the bird names that get written down in books; do you think there are any bird names that get rejected for ridiculousness, because honestly there's apparently an entire group of birds called "babblers", and then you recited a spontaneous limerick about a sorcerer who falls in love with a dove.'

'Wow,' says Jaskier faintly. 'You have a good memory.'

'I was annoyed, and I couldn't block you out. You were like a stone in my shoe.'

He winces.

She adds, her tone a little more friendly, 'Although you were much more interesting to listen to than Sir Eyck.'

Jaskier smiles wryly. Poor Sir Eyck. He'd been a twit, but hadn't deserved such an ignominious death.

'So?' she says. She looks over at him and catches his eye. 'Why are you so quiet?'

'Oh!' He thinks it over. 'I suppose ... I'm still not used to being able to speak.'

Yen makes a small noise. He's probably not explaining very well.

'Not being able to speak for myself, I mean,' he says. 'I still _talked_ , but I didn't have control over what I said. And the curse didn't let me get close to people, not really, so I suppose I probably still talked less than usual. It's—it's easier when we're already having a conversation. That feels _normal_. But I got used to not being able to say anything I wanted to. Especially now that we're walking, since I did a lot of walking under the curse. I wasn't allowed to stay in one place for very long, until it made me take up the position in Duke Hereward's court. And I didn't get to look at the scenery, and I couldn't sing, like I normally would if I was travelling by myself, so all there was to do was to think about things. I suppose I'm just more used to keeping my own company now, since I've been travelling alone for so long.' He laughs. 'If Geralt ever talks to me again, he'll probably think it's a vast improvement.'

Yen doesn't laugh.

'How long?' she asks.

'How long what?'

'How long did the curse have you?'

'I don't know.' He rubs his thumb idly over his forefinger. 'Long enough. Few months.'

'A few _months_ —' Yen repeats. 'I'm so sorry. I wish I'd found you sooner.'

He shrugs, not really sure what to say. 'At least you found me at all. I wasn't sure anyone would. Didn't expect you to help, either. So. Thanks for that.'

'Don't mention it. I'll simply hold it over you until we both die.'

He's startled into a laugh, and she grins at him. Her whole face lights up when she smiles. He realises that they're friends now. Huh. When did that happen?

'Gird your loins,' she says. 'We're nearly there.'

'I haven't needed to gird my loins since I graduated to breeches,' he sniffs, and feels gratified when Yen laughs.

'I bet you were a pretty boy, in your silk dresses.'

'I _was_ , actually. My mother kept our hair long until we were breeched—my brother and I, I mean. Obviously my sister still keeps her hair long. Or at least she did the last I checked. We all had beautiful curls, although my sister and I grew out of them.'

'How precious,' Yen cooed.

'Mmm. I made up for it by being the most awkward looking youth you ever saw. Although at least I'd grown into my features somewhat by the time I left university.'

'Never mind, a talented sorcerer can fix them for you,' she teases.

'Rude,' he replies.

They fall silent as they reach the carved stones that mark the edge of the temple grounds. Jaskier lets out a shaky breath. Yen's hand finds his and gives it a squeeze. The reminder that she's there helps, more than he might've expected a day or two ago. He takes a deep breath, and they cross the threshold together.

*

They're soon met by a novice who takes one look at the pair of them, and then another, longer, look at Yen, and squeaks that she'll fetch Mother Nenneke.

Nenneke arrives majestically in her own time, like a galleon coming into port. She looks about as impressed with the pair of them as she ever is with Jaskier's appearance, which is to say, not at all.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘You've come to collect him, then. This is a temple, you know, not a convalescent home.’

Yen and Jaskier exchange glances.

‘Is he badly injured?’ asks Jaskier.

‘Not in his body,’ dismisses Nenneke. ‘Up here.’ She taps her head.

_The last thing she needs to realise is that there were two monsters here._

‘Oh gods, it's my fault,’ he whispers.

Nenneke gives him a sharp look.

‘Where is he?’ demands Yen.

‘The Garden of Forgotten Flowers,’ says Nenneke. ‘Epona can take you. Epona!’ she called. ‘Take them to our malingering witcher.’

Epona takes them to the garden. It’s a place that Jaskier has never been before on his visits here. They enter a small cave, then head through a narrow passage that leads off one side, and into a much larger cave. There is the gentle sound of running water, though whether it is in this cave or another nearby, Jaskier can’t tell.

The place seems completely impossible. It is thick with plants. They spill out from containers fixed to the wall, and grow thickly across the floor, except where stones have been laid down to make a path. Even then, you would have to pick your way across them carefully, to avoid the foliage which sprawls across it in places.

Jaskier would have expected it to be cold and dark, but it is hot and humid, and filtered light spills in from above, from where a thin sheet of crystal acts as a kind of window. Jaskier has never seen anything like it.

Geralt is on the far side with his back to them, kneeling down with a pair of shears, trimming away the dead wood on a small shrub.

Jaskier’s heart stops. His chest is being squeezed in a giant hand. He isn’t ready for this. _He isn’t ready_. What if Geralt never wants to see him again? What if he never trusts him again?

Yen strides into the chamber. Jaskier follows reluctantly, but can’t help hanging back, hoping that Geralt doesn’t see him.

‘ _Geralt of Rivia._ ’

Jaskier nearly laughs. He’s never heard Yen full-name Geralt, and it’s clear that she is _pissed_.

Geralt startles and turns around. His eyes widen when he sees her.

‘Yen.’

No wonder Nenneke said there is something wrong in his head, Jaskier thinks. It isn’t just that he looks endlessly tired and sad, that he has dark circles beneath his eyes that Jaskier hasn’t seen the match of since Rinde. It’s the way he moves. Geralt is light on his feet, graceful, and _especially_ quick to respond to threats.

But when Yen yelled at him, he turned around as though he was in a vat of wine up to his waist. Like every movement is more effort than it should be.

That will get him killed in a fight, Jaskier thinks.

_The last thing she needs to realise is that there were two monsters here._

‘How _dare_ you,’ she says. ‘How _dare you not turn up_. You have a daughter now. You _can’t pull this shit_.’

Geralt’s eyes shutter as though he’s tacked up a sign to his forehead like the inns do at the beginning of winter: _closed for the season_.

‘She’s better off with you,’ he says.

‘She’s better off—’ Yen repeats, disbelieving. ‘Geralt. She’s a fucking _orphan_. She’s lost her entire family, and you just disappeared on her. You’re her _father_ now. She’s a _little girl_. She can’t cope with losing you too.’

‘She’ll get over it,’ says Geralt, turning away. He picks up the shears again. ‘She won’t miss me for long. She’ll do better without having me around. She’ll be an amazing mage. You’ll see.’

‘She cried for six hours when you didn’t turn up last week.’

Geralt visibly flinches, curving in on himself like she’d thrown a rock at his back. And gods, Jaskier can’t watch this.

‘Yen,’ he says quietly.

Yen turns around to glare at him, but subsides.

The acoustics in here are amazing, he thinks. That one word echo much louder than he’d expected.

And of course, Geralt’s hearing is superb.

Geralt turns around to look at him, shears forgotten in his half-open hand. And the expression on his face is awful to look at. He looks _devastated._

‘Jaskier?’ Geralt asks.

‘Hello, Geralt,’ he replies. He lets himself drift a little closer. His eyes are stinging.

‘Why are you here?’ Geralt asks plaintively. ‘I did what you asked. I left. Why are you _here_?’

‘I didn’t, I swear I didn’t,’ he says.

‘You _did_ ,’ says Geralt. ‘I could hardly forget what you said. Or the smell of your _fear_ when you saw what I had done. You were right. I am a monster.’

‘Geralt, _no_ ,’ says Jaskier. ‘You’re not. You’re the kindest man I’ve ever known.’

‘ _Then why were you afraid of me?_ ’ he snarls.

‘ _I wasn’t!_ ’ Jaskier yells back, before realising that yelling is not going to help.

‘I _know_ what I smelled, you can’t _lie_ to me—’

‘I was afraid of the curse! I was afraid of the fact that you didn’t seem to _notice_ I was cursed!’

Geralt flinches. ‘What? No …’

‘But mostly I was afraid you’d believe what it made me say,’ Jaskier says softly.

‘If you really were cursed, then why not come find me when it broke?’ asks Geralt bitterly. ‘That was months and months ago.’

‘I am,’ says Jaskier. He looks to Yen, unsure what to say next. ‘Yen—Yen had to break it.’

‘It was a stupid minor curse,’ says Geralt. ‘He didn’t have time to cast anything stronger. And _I killed him_. You might’ve believed you were cursed so you could just _say_ the things you were _thinking_ , but it would’ve worn off _months ago_.’

Jaskier feels the tears finally fall. He hasn’t spoken for himself for months; he doesn’t know what to say to _fix_ this. This is worse than their fight at the top of the mountain, somehow. And Geralt still won’t _listen_ to him.

‘He was _cursed_ , Geralt. I had to spend an entire morning undoing it when I could’ve spent it doing _literally anything else_ , including coming here and smacking you up the side of the head for your idiocy,’ says Yennefer flatly. ‘Do you think that Jaskier and I have a weekly catchup where we paint each other’s nails and talk about you? Why else would we be arriving together.’

‘Well, _now_ I want to do that,’ says Jaskier.

Yennefer lets out an unladylike snort.

‘But I killed him,’ says Geralt, sounding lost.

‘That, uh, might be why it stuck around so long, according to Yen,’ says Jaskier, glancing at her.

This does not help.

‘It’s _my fault_?’ asks Geralt, then a moment later adds, ‘Ow.’

Yen bends over and picks up another piece of gravel.

‘No, it’s not your fault,’ soothes Jaskier. ‘You’re not responsible when some arsehole—’

‘Funny, because it sure _sounds_ like it was my fault that you were cursed for four mo— _Ow. Yen._ ’

‘I could do this all day,’ says Yen. ‘That’s the thing about gardens. Lots of small rocks.’

‘ _What_ is that supposed to achieve?’ Geralt demands.

‘It’s a—Hmm. What did you call it during your training with Ciri? It’s a metaphor. Only instead of a metaphor for the burdens of a witcher’s life, it’s a metaphor for what it feels like for your loved ones to hear you run yourself down.’

She throws another piece of gravel and bounces it, unerringly, off his forehead.

‘ _Ow_.’

‘Precisely.’

 _‘Yennefer_ , is this really _helping_ ,’ hisses Jaskier.

Yen ignores him, and picks up another piece of gravel.

Geralt, to Jaskier’s astonishment, begins to laugh.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I give. I’ll try not to.’

‘Don’t promise anything too rash,’ says Yen. ‘I know if you stop your self-hatred for too long your heart stops beating.’

‘It does _not_ ,’ says Geralt.

‘How would you _tell_?’ she retorts.

Geralt puts the shears down. ‘Let’s go find something to eat. And possibly drink. I think I need an extraordinarily large drink.’

‘Now you’re talking my language,’ smiles Jaskier.

‘Can you boys behave if I’m not here to watch you?’ says Yen. ‘I’m not sure you remember, but I have a daughter to look after. And since her father didn’t turn up when he was supposed to, I also have a sweetheart to placate.’

‘Where _is_ Ciri?’ frowns Geralt.

‘ _Now_ you notice. With said sweetheart,’ said Yen. ‘Who _did not sign up for this_ , I’ll remind you. And is disgustingly good with her. I may not be able to let her go. It’s a problem. I don’t know what to do in a relationship if it isn’t going to destroy itself in a conflagration within a year or two.’

She and Geralt grin at each other; it has the air of an old joke between them. Jaskier feels very out of place.

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses Geralt on the cheek.

‘Be good,’ she says. ‘I’ll portal back tomorrow to bring you to your daughter. Practise your apologies before then. I hope you have a good solstice gift to distract her.’

‘Give my love to Triss,’ says Geralt.

‘I definitely won’t,’ says Yen. ‘She’ll get that dreamy look on her face and start waxing poetic about that time after the striga when she got to see you with your shirt off.’

‘That wasn’t my fault. I was dying. Also, you weren’t courting then.’

‘Bye, Geralt,’ waves Yen, laughing as she goes.

Geralt still has a smile on his face as he watches her.

‘So …’ says Jaskier, awkwardly. ‘Should I go too, or …?’

‘If you like,’ says Geralt, the smile falling off his face.

‘Of course I don’t like!’ says Jaskier. ‘I want to know if you actually want to spend time with me, or if you’re going to hate me forever for what the curse made me say.’ He blows out a frustrated breath. ‘Or maybe I should pick up some of Yen’s rocks.’

‘Of course I want you around,’ says Geralt. ‘It must be nearly lunchtime. Have you eaten?’

‘Not since breakfast,’ Jaskier admits.

‘Mmm, sounds like it,’ says Geralt, smiling slightly. He picks up the shears and takes them over to a small workbench.

‘I’m not sure I like what you’re implying,’ says Jaskier.

‘Who said I was implying anything?’ says Geralt, with a twinkle in his eye. It’s his shit-stirring twinkle, and Jaskier feels a well of emotion stir in him, and threaten to spill out his eyes again.

‘Melitele, but I’ve missed you,’ he says, with feeling.

Geralt’s expression softens. His hand falls on Jaskier’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Before the priestesses eat all the good stuff. You wouldn’t believe how much they can put away.’

*

The refectory is full of women and chatter when they enter. No-one turns to stare at them, which really goes to show just how long Geralt’s been here; he’s not exactly an unnoticeable person.

Geralt leads to the way to one end of the hall where there’s a table with enormous ceramic bowls set into it. It looks like the lunchtime options are stew or stew. Well, at least he has options. What a novelty. Hmm. Beige stew or dark brown?

He’s about to dip the ladle into the dark brown stew, when Geralt puts a hand on his arm.

‘You probably want the other one,’ he says.

‘I have made my choice,’ Jaskier says loftily.

Geralt shrugs. ‘Your funeral. You’re not getting some of mine.’

‘That’s fine,’ says Jaskier. ‘This smells delicious.’

Geralt grabs a few bread rolls while Jaskier eyes the tables, trying to decide where they should sit.

‘Come on,’ says Geralt. ‘This way.’

He leads the way out of the refectory and to the small library where Jaskier has found him on previous visits.

‘Won’t they get annoyed with you taking food in here?’ he says, looking around.

‘Not so long as I bring the dishes back afterwards,’ says Geralt. ‘It’s weird sitting in a room entirely surrounded by women. I felt like the proverbial wolf in a flock of sheep. And Nenneke said that I “distract” the novices. So I’m permitted to eat in here.’

‘That sounds terribly lonely,’ says Jaskier, before he can think better of it.

Geralt shrugs, not meeting his gaze.

There’s a small reading table which is clearly where Geralt’s been setting himself up. Geralt puts his bowl down and drags another chair over for Jaskier.

‘Thanks,’ says Jaskier sitting down. He dips his spoon in his stew and tries it. ‘Ugh, good gods, Geralt, this is _terrible!_ ’

‘I warned you,’ says Geralt. ‘You wouldn’t listen.’

‘I just wanted to make a decision that was my own,’ says Jaskier mournfully.

‘You’re not guilting me into swapping,’ says Geralt. ‘This is the best stew they make all week.’

He hadn’t been trying to. Though that is a thought.

‘I guess I’ll just eat all the bread, then,’ he says with an exaggerated sigh.

‘You won’t,’ says Geralt, curling one arm protectively around his bread rolls.

‘Oh, come on!’ says Jaskier.

He waits until Geralt looks like he might be distracted eating his stew, and tries to sneak a hand across to Geralt’s corralled bread rolls. Geralt slaps his hand away without even looking up.

‘Fine!’ says Geralt. ‘We’ll share.’

He pushes the bowl of soup so that it sits between them.

‘You’re a good, kind man for taking pity on a poor bard,’ says Jaskier, reaching over. He pauses, spoon just about to break the surface. ‘Wait. This isn’t because you’re feeling guilty about the curse, is it? I’m not going to eat penitent soup.’

‘ _Jaskier._ ’

‘ _Geralt._ ’

‘I fail to see how it _isn’t_ my fault,’ Geralt says bitterly. ‘Everything I tried made it worse.’

‘It wasn’t that you killed him, I think,’ says Jaskier. He starts tearing his bread roll into pieces. ‘It was that he died at the precise moment that he cast it. If you’d been slower, the curse would’ve still happened, it’s just that it would’ve finished sooner. Probably. It was just poor luck. The worst kind of luck.’

‘And if I’d been faster, you wouldn’t have been cursed.’

‘And if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,’ returns Jaskier. ‘You were not at fault. An awful man cast an awful spell, and he died for it. End of story.’

‘I still should’ve—’ Geralt begins.

Jaskier pings a piece of crust off Geralt’s nose. Geralt blinks at him.

‘You promised Yen, Geralt. You weren’t faster because you’re not a bloodthirsty monster. You probably still planned to bring him in alive to face the music. Am I right?’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt grumpily, tearing a piece off his bread roll with his teeth.

‘I bet I’m right. You’re the man who saw a striga that had murdered dozens of men, and thought, _there’s a terrified little girl in there, and I bet I can save her_. That doesn’t make you a horrible person. The fact that you don’t always succeed doesn’t diminish the fact that you always _try_. That’s one of the things I love about you. Your big heart.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt. ‘Well, if I don’t need to feel guilty about it, I suppose I can eat my lunch myself.’

He draws the bowl back towards himself.

‘What? No! _Geralt!_ ’ Jaskier wails. ‘At least let me have a taste!’

Geralt laughs at him, but pushes the bowl back.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just a taste.’

Jaskier digs his spoon in eagerly.

‘What the hell, Geralt,’ he says. ‘This is just pottage. Why does it taste _so good_.’

‘No idea,’ says Geralt. ‘Nenneke wouldn’t tell me. Said she hasn’t worked in the kitchen for forty years, and has no interest in their secrets.’

‘You can have it back,’ Jaskier says, grumpily. ‘You’re right, you should be able to eat your own lunch. I will live with my poor decision. Only save me a spoonful at the end to take the taste of this out of my mouth?’

‘Hmm,’ Geralt says, agreeably.

‘What on earth is even _in_ this stuff?’ says Jaskier, lifting a spoonful of the brown stew and letting it pour back into the bowl. ‘It’s so awful. Greasy _and_ thin somehow.’

‘There’s a horse farm nearby,’ says Geralt. ‘I think they send their old nags here instead of the knackers.’

‘No! Geralt, please say you’re joking. I’m not eating Roach’s elderly grandaunts. You’re joking, aren’t you?’

Geralt grins at him.

‘You’re terrible,’ grumbles Jaskier.

They eat in silence for a while. Jaskier finds a piece of cartilage stuck in his teeth and he fishes it out with a grimace.

‘I thought I’d missed my chance,’ says Geralt.

‘Missed your chance at what?’ says Jaskier absently. He dipped a chunk of bread in the stew to see it that would make it taste less terrible. It didn’t.

‘You.’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Jaskier. His heart starts picking up speed, like a cart rolling backwards downhill after the traces snap. He isn’t at all sure that he’s following the conversation. He isn’t sure what to hope for.

‘After the mountain, you never mentioned it again,’ says Geralt. ‘I thought … maybe you’d found something else that pleased you.’

‘No,’ says Jaskier in a low voice, heart still pounding. ‘No, I never have.’

‘And suddenly you’re here, and you’re eating terrible stew, and you just—say that you love me,’ says Geralt. ‘I will never understand how you’re so brave.’

‘What?’ says Jaskier. ‘When did I say that?’

Geralt looks amused. ‘About five minutes ago.’

Jaskier runs the conversation back in his mind. ‘Oh, Melitele help me. I _did_ ,’ he moans.

‘You don’t need to sound so put out about it,’ says Geralt.

‘Well, pardon _me_ ,’ says Jaskier. ‘I had simply imagined that the first time I told the love of my life that I was devoted to him in so many words, I had intended for the moment to have some kind of _ceremony_ to it. I could’ve written you a song, or something. At least given you a posey. Not told you as part of an argument over _stew_.’

‘I don’t know, I thought it was sweet,’ says Geralt. ‘The love of your life, eh?’

‘All right, don’t rub it in,’ says Jaskier.

Geralt shuffles his chair forward so that their knees are entwined. Jaskier thinks his heart might have actually stopped. Geralt leans towards him and reaches out.

‘Can I?’ he says.

‘Mmm,’ says Jaskier, barely daring to breathe in case it breaks this moment.

They both lean in. Geralt’s hands frame his face so gently, and then he’s kissing him.

Jaskier has imagined their first kiss a hundred hundred times, in a hundred different places. Jaskier kissing Geralt passionately when he comes back injured from a hunt; that one is an old favourite. (And it certainly makes stitching up Geralt’s gouges a little easier to cope with.) The two of them falling into their bed together after a night of drinking, as though they are destined, is also one he returns to again and again. The two of them waking up one morning on the road, limbs entwined, as the cold autumn air swirls around them, until Geralt leans down and kisses him thoroughly; that one has kept Jaskier warm on several cold mornings. (Sometimes while the actual Geralt is telling him to get his arse up because breakfast is ready and they need to get moving soon, even though rosy-fingered dawn has _barely_ peeped over the horizon, because Jaskier was fool enough in his youth to fall for a witcher who apparently _laughs_ at human needs like _sleep_ ).

But he’s never imagined Geralt to be this soft and tender and _sweet_. It hardly feels like a first kiss at all. If he doubted the depth of Geralt’s feelings, this kiss settles it for him. He feels _loved_ , thoroughly and completely. Jaskier is so overwhelmed he wants to weep.

Geralt draws back a little, but Jaskier’s hands are clenched tightly in the fabric of his doublet so he can’t go far. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s neck, unwilling to let the moment go.

‘All right there?’ says Geralt. He runs a hand down Jaskier’s back.

‘I’m about to fall out of my chair,’ Jaskier tells Geralt’s neck.

Geralt laughs softly at him. ‘If you let go, you could sit further back in your chair, and maybe even move _the chair_ closer.’

‘Mmm, no. Can’t do that. I live here now.’

‘All right, love,’ says Geralt, a smile in his voice.

Gods, Jaskier wants to _bottle_ the feelings he has whenever Geralt is happy. There’s certainly enough to spare.

‘You know,’ says Geralt thoughtfully, ‘this morning I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again.’

Jaskier sits up, nearly overbalances, and pauses to tug the chair properly underneath him.

‘Why do you _say_ things like that,’ he complains once he’s recovered. ‘Now I’m heartbroken for you.’

Geralt blinks at him. ‘It’s why I’m so happy,’ he says. ‘This is more than I could have hoped for.’

Jaskier climbs into Geralt’s lap, partly for the sheer pleasure of finally being able to do it. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, brushing it away from his face. Geralt looks up at him, his face open and hopeful.

‘Oh, my darling,’ says Jaskier. ‘We have to make you some better memories, so that you have better expectations of life than that.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Geralt says, and leans up to kiss him.

### Epilogue

They lie together on the bed in Geralt's cell. It is a narrow thing, clearly not designed for two, and barely sufficient for a man of Geralt's size, so they are practically on top of each other.

Jaskier thinks there is nowhere else in the wide world he'd rather be.

Geralt is half on top of him, head tucked into the hollow of Jaskier's neck. He traces shapes with his finger on the skin of Jaskier's arm idly.

‘I met a witcher on the road while we were apart,’ says Jaskier. ‘I wondered if it was someone you knew.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘Didn't get the chance.’

‘You know we don't all know each other,’ says Geralt, lifting his head to look at him. ‘He might not even be from my school.’

‘I guessed as much,’ Jaskier says, ‘though you'll have to tell me about the witcher schools sometime. You've got me now; you don't have to be all mysterious to keep my interest.’

Geralt laughs. ‘Maybe I just don’t like talking about myself.’

‘Mmm, no, pretty sure that’s you playing hard to get.’

‘So tell me about this new witcher,’ teases Geralt. ‘What’s he look like? Do I need to stake my claim? Guard my territory against newcomers?’ He mouths at Jaskier’s throat.

‘Ha, doubt it. I didn’t see him for long. He has shorter hair than you, like my hair kind of short. Darker, too, though that’s not hard. I couldn’t tell the colour in the rain.’ He thinks about it. ‘Oh, and he has a scar on his face! Like this,’ he says, tracing a finger along the scar’s path.

Geralt watches the mime, then lies his head back down. ‘Oh, that’s just my brother, Eskel.’

‘Geralt! _What?!_ ’

Jaskier tries to sit up, but is far too thoroughly pinned. He shoves at Geralt’s shoulder, but Geralt just makes a satisfied sort of noise and wriggles himself further on top of him.

‘It’s only because you’re lying by the wall that I’m not trying to tip you onto the ground,’ threatens Jaskier. ‘What do you mean, your brother? I thought you strode fully formed out of the mountains when the gods animated an enormous boulder by striking it with lightning. Next you’ll be telling me about your father.’

‘’s name’s Vesemir.’

‘ _What?!_ You have to be kind to me, Geralt, I’m not as young as I used to be and I’m not sure my heart can cope with having my entire world turned on its head.’

Geralt makes a rumbling noise of contentment. Jaskier refuses to be soothed like this. He _refuses_.

‘Do you want to meet them?’ Geralt says.

‘Do I—Is that an _option_?’

Geralt hums. ‘We usually spend winters in the keep,’ he says. ‘With Ciri, taking turns with training.’

‘Oh,’ says Jaskier. This is clearly where Geralt is meant to have gone this month, Ciri in tow. ‘So you’ll take me there next year?’

He needs to prepare. Acquire gifts. Force Geralt to give him _some_ kind of detail about his family, so that he can find them things they’ll like. A year suddenly doesn’t seem like enough time, even knowing that the pair of them will likely walk most of the length of the continent in that time. Perhaps he can get a bottle or two of Toussaintois wine directly from one of his favourite vineyards. That always goes down well.

‘Yen’s portalling in tomorrow,’ Geralt reminds him. ‘She’ll take us and Ciri up to Kaer Morhen, providing you want to come.’

‘Try to stop me,’ says Jaskier. He sighs. No gifts, then. ‘At least I just got a lovely new suit of clothes.’

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to my darling [ruffboi](/users/ruffboi/). Sorry it took so long.
> 
> There are a couple of extremely nerdy music references in here. ‘Maribor’ in a place on the Continent, and I was thinking about dance tunes like ‘[Newcastle](http://playforddances.com/dances/newcastle/)’ in The English Dance Master, first published by John Playford in 1651. ‘Newcastle’ isn’t the only dance and tune in that collection named for a place, but it’s one that I happened to have learnt recently. There’s some cracking dance/tune names in that volume, by the way, if that's your kind of thing.
> 
> The other is the ‘Schellighe’ dance, which I decided was the Continent’s answer to the Schottische. Like the polka, it's both a type of music and a kind of dance. I imagine it’s likely that the Schellighe isn’t Skelligan, just like the Schottische dance isn’t Scottish. (The first Schottische tune I played was at a Scandinavian session, in fact.) I don’t know when the dance originated, but it became very popular in the 19th century, which is far too late for it to fit into The Witcher’s pseudo-Elizabethan setting, but shhhh. Let me have this.
> 
> The title is, of course, from ‘Battle Cries’, by Joey Batey's band The Amazing Devil. We’re all indebted to them for their astounding lyrics which have probably provided titles for a good 50% of Witcher fics. If you haven’t gone and listened to them yet on Spotify or Bandcamp, I really do recommend it. ‘Battle Cries’ is on their recent album, _The Horror and the Wild_ , but _Love Run_ is also superb.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [JackIronsides](https://jackironsides.tumblr.com), or [JackIronsidesFic](https://jackironsidesfic.tumblr.com) if you just want the fic.


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